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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387754">The Beast Girl</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lance_Otter/pseuds/Lance_Otter'>Lance_Otter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Diary/Journal, Fix-It, Gen, Self-Insert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:49:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,735</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lance_Otter/pseuds/Lance_Otter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[Temporary Hiatus.]</p><p>Depending on who one speaks to, one would get a simplification of the preferred - like whether a machine or a needle is easier: the argument could be made that the machine is faster. The argument could be made that the needle is more elegant. Irregardless of what you claim, in the end, you still end up with woven cloth, and thus, both works for what one needs, and simply put, what one prefers.</p><p>It is said that only the interesting are able to use magic well. She has no truth nor knowledge of this, and it’s not a point that she is able to stand on. After all, it’s not like she is an interesting person, merely an ordinary one thrust into strange circumstances. It’s not everyday that you are reborn.</p><p>(Where there are shoes that need to be filled, and hers are the feet that fill them.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. silken thread.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And you promise you’ll be well-behaved, Marianne?” </p>
<p>She nodded, feeling the sharpness of the metal clips holding her hair neatly in place digging into her scalp, and tried to keep from grimacing. Everything from the most unruliest of locks to the toes of her shoes- laced brown boots, set beneath a sky blue skirt- was perfectly in place, primed and perfect, and Mari couldn’t help but feel like she was a doll with the sheer amount of ribbons and complications of her clothes. There was so much… fabric.</p>
<p>“Of course, father,” is her response as she fiddles with her sleeves- he inhales sharply, and she quickly allows her arm to fall back to her side with a sheepish expression.</p>
<p>“You’re sure?” He asks.</p>
<p>Mari nodded again. “I’m certain.”</p>
<p>His shoulders drop, and before she can properly react, he’s kneeling down to her height, his arms flung around her to squeeze her into an embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. She doesn’t touch him back; her hands remain stiff and straight. They linger like that, motionless and then he draws back, face as blank as her own. </p>
<p>A hand rests on her hair. “I will be home before you know it, dear Marianne. I trust that you will maintain your studies, and I expect a demonstration when I return.” As she opens her mouth to speak, he passes something into her hands, curling her fingers around it to ensure it doesn’t fall to the floor. “Don’t look at it just yet, don’t open it until I leave. It is a present,” and an apology, for his trip will take the entirety of the Red Wolf Moon, and it is yet another birthday he will not be home for. “I hope you enjoy it.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” her heart swells; both with love… and with guilt. “Thank you, father.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t know how to tell him that she is not his daughter, and so, she doesn’t.</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>[Journal Entry #1. ]</p>
<p>&lt; Imperial Year 1158, 18th of the Red Wolf Moon. &gt;</p>
<p><br/>Father gifted me a journal as an apology, and so, I best make use of it. I will use this as a record of my thoughts, my feelings, and somewhere for me to provide my knowledge so that I don’t break down screaming whenever I am confronted.</p>
<p>Which, based on the world I have wound up in, I assume will be happening frequently.</p>
<p>To begin with, let me preface by saying that the person the world sees is quite different to the person I am; I am not Marianne von Edmund (in more than one way - I still currently bare the name of Marianne’s father, and thus the name of this body is ‘Marianne von Vecroix’), but an intruder to her life. </p>
<p>I’m not meant to be here. And I don’t have the audacity to claim her identity as my own, and for the sake of my own sanity, I will call myself Mari.</p>
<p>I do not remember my own name - nor, if I had the option would I write it.</p>
<p>I can’t explain why, save that it would feel like an insult now. It isn’t like anyone is going to ever say it to my face again.</p>
<p>But, somehow, I have become her. I am the sole occupant of these thoughts, the one who steers this body as easily as a captain in a boat, and frequently, perhaps, I wonder if I killed her. Did I consume her by taking this? I didn’t intend on it-, I don’t know how I wound up here. My memory is… foggy.</p>
<p>...there are things I still recall, of course.</p>
<p>I remember the gunshot that killed me (wrong place, wrong time), I remember my job (a mechanic slash engineer), I remember I died at the age of twenty-three. I remember I passed my final exams with flying colours. I remember I had a cat. I remember I didn’t want to get a drivers license because I was scared I was going to crash. I remember that mum wanted me to be a nurse and I didn’t because I thought it sounded stupid. I remember someone offered alcohol to me when I was fourteen. I remember I called off my engagement when his brother snorted cocaine in my bathro</p>
<p>There's someone at the door.</p>
<p>I'll be back soon.</p>
<p>[END ENTRY.]</p>
<hr/>
<p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>..</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“They say you’re quite the mage,” Duke Goneril hums from the other side of the table, waving a hand to motion the serving girl into pouring tea into Mari’s cup. Giving the girl a nod, purple eyes swivel forward, and Mari fights back the urge to shudder; she <em> knows </em>, of course that Hilda’s father is a man of honour and not cruelty, but he is a noble nonetheless, and she feels as if she is being dissected under his gaze. “Is this true?”</p>
<p>It would make sense, of course - House Goneril has always worked closely, hand in hand with House Edmund, so the offer is a clear one. An extension, an invitation to join her house with their own, once she becomes of legal age to marry.</p>
<p>“I have been told I am, yes,” she said evenly, words chosen carefully to not deny the question but also to indicate humility. “Though, I am still learning, admittedly.”</p>
<p>Truth be told, magic is… bizarre.</p>
<p>This is not a world where magic defines people, only that some places have a more apparent inclination to it than others. Growing up, Mari was raised with the awareness that the two main ‘variants’ of magical potential are simply names given to the noble usage of them; in combat, rather than in day to day life. Reason and Faith are simply combatant terms and thus, a vast generalisation of what magic is.</p>
<p>It is easy to think of it quite like knitting.</p>
<p>Depending on who one speaks to, one would get a simplification of the preferred - like whether a machine or a needle is easier: the argument could be made that the machine is faster. The argument could be made that the needle is more elegant. Irregardless of what you claim, in the end, you still end up with woven cloth, and thus, both works for what one needs, and simply put, what one prefers.</p>
<p>It is said that only the interesting are able to use magic well. She has no truth nor knowledge of this, and it’s not a point that she is able to stand on. After all, it’s not like she is an interesting person, merely an ordinary one thrust into strange circumstances. It’s not everyday that you are reborn.</p>
<p>His eyes close, and he hums. “And your studies are within the realm of Faith, I assume?”</p>
<p>She shies a glance over to the image of <em> Seiros </em>, hands clasped over her heart, surrounded by a spiral of Crests and light, painted in oil and forming the painting resting on the far wall, just next to the window. “Yes,” she says, for it is the one thing that all of House Edmund must take part in - they are specialists in Faith, natural and innate healers, and perhaps it is a redemption of sorts.</p>
<p><em> Maurice. </em>The forgotten name.</p>
<p>“Good, good,” he nods, and reaches for his tea cup. “Why, I remember just a few years back that your father and I were on the battlefield. Brilliant man, he is, both in words and in weaponry, and I am certain you are your father’s daughter. If you share blood with him, then I am doubtless you will be superb. I ought to introduce you to Hilda, perhaps she can learn a thing or two - that girl is always so tempestuous, rushing in with neither notice nor care…”</p>
<p>He pauses.</p>
<p>“You are not attending the school of sorcery, I have heard.”</p>
<p>Forcing a small, stiff smile to her face, Mari responds. “That is correct, I…” she winces, “I am not the best at conversation, alas. And- I am in preference of working from home.”</p>
<p>Lord Goneril tilts his head, as if examining something, before sighing. “Regrettable, but I am sure you have your reasons. ‘Tis a shame, nonetheless.”</p>
<p>Her hands ball in her skirt, hidden beneath the table, and she nods. </p>
<p>“Miss Marianne?” She turns, and one of the guards rests a hand over his heart as he bows, face covered by a steel helmet. “Your history and linguistics tutor has arrived.”</p>
<p><em> Oh, thank the Goddess. </em> Rising to her feet, she curtsies to the man seated across, shooting him a remorseful look. Addressing the guardsman with a, “thank you,” she turns to the noble. “Apologies, Lord Goneril, but I must be off. Thank you sincerely for your time.”</p>
<p>“Indeed, I must be departing similarly,” he bows, and relief swells in her chest at the contemplative- and not irritated- expression in his eyes. “I wish you the best of luck in your studies, Marianne, and I pray you make the decision to attend the Officer’s Academy. I am certain they could use someone of your diligence.”</p>
<p>Her eyes turn to the floor.</p>
<p>To tell the truth… she doesn’t know if she wants to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. possibility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Were she able to, she would be shooting glares at her father right now. You woke me up before sunrise to see this? To meet a ball of energy and to have a huge headache? Could we not have waited another couple of hours and had introductions over a pleasant cup of tea and preferably over lunch? </p><p>He would probably disown her on the spot.</p><p>Scratch that. He definitely would.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>While this fic is still a work in progress, I have up to chapter ten planned out; updates will be fortnightly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The Adrestian Empire was founded by the hand of Emperor Wilhem Paul Hresvelg, blessed by Seiros herself and bestowed with Her Crest to carve the future of Adrestia, and thus, the future of all of Fodlan. He was killed in the middle of the War of Heroes, and his legacy was passed to his son, Lycaon I.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> T’was said that the Empire was viewed in a vision from an oracle, that their name was to be Adrestia, and that their legacy would span eons.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To this day, the Empire is still the greatest military force in all of Fodlan, with mages that no other nation can boast, and a deeply seated influence in the goings of the world, uniting lands such as Brigid and Dagda, and having created the skeleton of modern Fodlan through years and years of tradition; the nobility of the Adrestian line spans clear-cut generations, with strong lineage of Crests and- </em>
</p><p>-she shuts the book, feeling the effects of a headache beginning to sprawl through her skull like a spider might through its web; leisurely, with far, far too much ease for her to be comfortable with in the slightest. Goddess have mercy, even in Leicester, the propaganda leaks from the words, and quite frankly, it makes her nauseous.</p><p><em> Supposedly, </em> Mari muses, <em> this is what Edelgard was worried for. </em></p><p>It is no lie to say that Fodlan clings to Her history as if it were pure gold, and indeed, in the minds of some, it may as well be. A Crest is an influence of power; to have one, even if not born from a place of wealth, was a surefire means to gaining influence. Marriage, military prowess, alleged improvement of skill, but… the only Crest she had ever witnessed first hand was her own.</p><p>Even amongst nobility, there are few nobles who still possess the Crest that their heritage is known for, and it’s, simply put, akin to watching a pot boil over. The power of a Crest seemed to fade as the lineage spread on, and it created the simple issue that even the King of Faerghus had only a minor Crest, not a major one.</p><p>Scraps and strands of long lost power, there is no denying that the world has been shaped by years past.</p><p>Kneading at her brow in an attempt to ease the soft pain there, she sighs and slowly gets to her feet. To speak so few of Brigid and Dagda- and that Almyra is not even a footnote within those dusty pages is-</p><p>-no. It matters not, and it should matter not, for this is the effect that Seiros has had on the world. A global retcon. And it is not like there are many around to question, and to doubt it. It’s… it’s a tricky matter, for even if someone attempted to sway the world’s opinion, there is always the possibility of backlash, of doubt, and of <em> fear </em>. Humans do not like change anymore than an animal does. </p><p>A change was an indication that patterns would need to be altered. That perception would need to shift. </p><p>And Mari is quite content to stay in her own space, thank you very much.</p><p>Tucking the book under her arm, she finds her feet carrying her over to the open window, soft light trailing through the glass as she rests her head upon it, glancing out into the world below. A sparrow has taken up nesting in the branches of an oak tree, and it’s beak splits to let it sing, a chorus of its children swarming from beneath it. The sun sent fingers to linger through the leaves, distorting the shadow of the foliage and illuminating the grass below.</p><p><em> Mari, </em> she recites, <em> Mari. Her name is Mari. </em></p><p>She is Mari, and she has just turned thirteen years of age. But she has remnants of being older, and she has remnants of being poorer, and she has remnants of knowing much, much less, for this world that she has been plucked into is not the one she knows. In her world, this fairy tale is known as <em> Fire Emblem, </em>and in her world, she-</p><p>Oh, what has become of the original Marianne? It is a question she comes back to, over and over, but there is no answer that eases her. Has she been killed, purged and replaced? Mari has become a thief, a stealer of lives, and when she turns fourteen, she will be adopted.</p><p><em> Why was Marianne adopted? </em> Her mind asks, and always pessimistic, her mind leaps to the worst. In less than ten years, Fodlan will be thrust into war, and one must assume that there would be many a casualty, even before the violence began. The theft of a princess from her throne, the slaughter of thousands to leave behind a haunted son, the displacement of a prince who belongs neither in the place of his birth nor the place he has claim to. <em> What is to happen to her? </em></p><p>
  <em> Can she change anything? </em>
</p><p>She hesitates.</p><p>...Could she?</p><p>Could she diverge the path? Could she shift the tides to swell in her favour? Could- could she save them? As many people as she could…? The Golden Deer don’t know her - and in truth, Mari does not know them, either. But she could. She could tell them of the future, of how they needed the Ashen Demon, she could tell them of Rhea, and she could tell them of Those Who Slither, and she-</p><p>-her hand curls into a fist.</p><p>She has never been good with expressing herself, and even now she feels her lips twist in a grimace. There is most likely little she can do. She’s not strong. She’s not clever, nor brave, nor adaptable, and she is most likely going to-</p><p>-no. Don’t say it. Don’t let it be real.</p><p>“It’s possible that the war won’t happen,” she said aloud, in a whisper as if to keep from disturbing the silence. The sparrow's song seems almost nauseating. “It is possible that nothing will change,” she said, and even to herself it sounds like a lie.</p>
<hr/><p>“Marianne,” father says, and nudges her forward slightly, crouching down to gently push her closer to the strange new foe, “say hello now.”</p><p>She doesn’t want to, not really, having been disturbed so early from sleep to be hustled into a carriage. They didn’t even eat breakfast before they went. <em> We’ll eat when we get there, okay? </em> With a simple refusal to tell what ‘there’ was and why they were going and why she had to do the laces of her boots in the carriage instead of being able to sleep in for another few hours. The sun had barely risen when they left. She had gotten to see it rise from the glass window, all while trying to keep from dozing off. Not that she wanted to.</p><p>Mari shook her head and tried to hide inside her sleeve. She hadn’t even woken up yet. A yawn was threatening to devour her mouth even as she was pushed another few steps forward.</p><p>If only the same could be said for the other girl.</p><p>A vibrant blur of pink and black and white, poking her head over her own father’s shoulder to ask, “who? Who? Who?” Like some sort of highlighted owl.</p><p>Were she able to, she would be shooting glares at her father right now. <em> You woke me up before sunrise to see this? </em> To meet a ball of energy and to have a huge headache? Could we not have waited another couple of hours and had introductions over a pleasant cup of tea and preferably over <em> lunch </em>? </p><p>He would probably disown her on the spot.</p><p>Scratch that. He definitely would.</p><p>“<em> Marianne, </em>” he repeated, softly, sharply. A quiet inhale of breath and, “I’m sorry, she’s not usually this shy, I don’t know what has gotten into her.”</p><p>“It’s quite alright!’ Came Duke Goneril’s boisterous laugh, for the man was the embodiment of the rising sun itself; all broad shoulders and deep-seated chuckles and a torso roughly the size of a barrel or four. “Holst was the same, well and truly- couldn’t speak to a lady if his very life demanded it! Come now, Hilda, say hello!”</p><p>“Hello!” Was the shout of a response, and Mari winced at the volume- clearly the girl was trying to emulate her father, and not in the ‘awww that’s so cute’ way, but in the ‘please don’t do this’ way. Were she even an octave higher, Mari had no doubt that the chandelier would come down on all of their heads.</p><p>Mari looked down at the floor. They thought she was shy? She could pretend to be shy, maybe it would get her out of this quicker. Biting her lip for maximum effect, she scuffed her boot on the carpet and tried to make herself seem smaller. </p><p>...it did not work. Hilda bounced into her vision, a hand outstretched. “Hi! I’m Hilda! Hello!”</p><p>She bit back the urge to sigh. Gingerly, she took the offered hand, squeezing it lightly. “I’m Mari.”</p><p>The hand was shaken. Mari sorely regretted it, and she says ‘sorely’ with all intent, for as her hand fell back to her side, she felt faintly as if it was about to fall clean off.</p><p>“Hi, Mari! I thought your dad said your name was Marianne?”</p><p>“I like Mari,” she said, detachedly. She had gone through this over and over, and she disliked having to repeat herself, as she was a human and not a broken record in the corner of the store. </p><p>“Oh,” Hilda blinked. “Why?”</p><p>Shrug. “I just do.”</p><p>“That’s kinda weird.”</p><p>“I guess?” </p><p>“Not ‘I guess’, it is very weird,” Hilda nodded, as if she was in possession of all the answers of the world. “You’re like Lorenz, but not.”</p><p>That was… unexpected. “...What?”</p><p>“Lorenz says a lot of things, but he doesn’t mean any of it,” she said, apparently imparting some secret wisdom from the way she looked left and right before leaning in, hands cupped over her mouth as if their fathers were not literally right above them. “You don’t say a lot of things, but you mean it, right?”</p><p>Shrugs again. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Hilda huffed. “You have to know. You must know lots of things.”</p><p>An eyebrow quirked, Mari folded her arms, “do I know lots of things?”</p><p>“Weeeeell, I think you do.” She drawls back.</p>
<hr/><p>Mari was an engineer in her past life. </p><p>Nothing major, mind. She didn’t design anything- though she had wanted to study architecture, she was never able to pay for her entry into the school that taught it. Instead, she worked at her dad’s and she helped fix cars that came in, and she still remembers the things that he taught her.</p><p>(It’s usually a lot of little things rather than one massive problem, he said, and reached for the wrench, very rare is it a massive thing- nah, it’s usually a lot of smaller problems. It’s like undoing a knot. If you don’t have all the kinks work out, it’s just gonna knot again. You gotta go through it. You gotta undo it all. Fix it once. Get it all done while the string is in your hands.)</p><p>(Isn’t that bad for business, though?)</p><p>(Aye, it’s bad for business. A nod. But it’s good for people. Don’t ever do a job where you don’t care for the people, or every day will be the same old string.)</p><p>...it’s strange, that her mind goes back to this now.</p><p>Get it all undone at once. Solve it slowly, take your time. If you rush it, it’ll knot again, and it’ll tangle, and then you’ll just be as bad as when you first started. </p><p>She fiddles with the spool of rope in her hands - a hobby she had gotten once long ago and never quite let go of, to the point where she asked one of her father’s knights if she could have one. He seemed reluctant. But hey, she was ten, what was she going to do? What was the worst that could happen?</p><p>Her fingers work the knots loose.</p><p>She tangles it, and she loops it so it becomes harder, and then she works on unraveling it. It’s the same with this, she muses. It’s a distraction admittedly, but the core of it stays the same. That all the knots needed to come out, or it would just wind up worse. That she needed to have a solution for all the problems before she could work on fixing them.</p><p>Sometimes it was tricky. Sometimes undoing one tangled strand led to another. But it’s okay, so long as she is patient regarding it. It frustrates her, and it hurts her fingers, so unused to the coarse texture of it in this life, and she is horribly, horribly out of practise. But it’s okay, for a knot is not a life, and it is better that she practises now, while she can, while the movements force her mind into a state of repetitive ease.</p><p>Problems are tangled all up in each other.</p><p>Patience was necessary, even as she perched on the edge of her seat, echoing the mantra over and over. Undo the knots. </p><p>And it would all be okay in the end.</p>
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